Necessary Sins

by Elizabeth Bell

  “Beside me, is this a pear?”

  He glanced up again automatically. At the moment, the pear sapling bore neither flowers nor fruit, and few leaves remained. “You have a good eye.” Was she a gardener, too?

  “We do have pears in Ireland. Where are they in the Bible?”

  “I’m stretching the rules again—pears are from Saint Augustine’s Confessions. He uses them to meditate on human nature.” Around the pomegranate, Joseph pressed down on the soil with his boot. “In his boyhood, Augustine stole pears from a neighbor’s tree—even though he had pears in his own yard. ‘I pilfered something which I already had in sufficient measure,’ Augustine wrote later.” God’s love is more than sufficient. You do not need this woman. You only WANT her, because she belongs to someone else and you are perverse. “‘To do this pleased me all the more because it was forbidden. … It was foul, and I loved it. I loved my own undoing.’ The theft of those pears haunted Augustine for the rest of his life.”

  “Is there anything, sir, you do not know?” Over the head of her son, the young mother beamed. “A gardener who is a Latinist, a hagiologist, a Biblical scholar, and can quote from Saint Augustine—I can understand why Bishop England engaged you.”

  Joseph smiled back. “Horticulture is merely my hobby.” He gave the pomegranate one last drink of water. “I learned it and everything else I know at seminary.”

  Her smile disappeared, and the color drained from her face. For a moment, the young mother only stared at him, her lips slightly open. At last she whispered: “You’re a divine.”

  Joseph nodded. “A Deacon, at the moment. Come this Saturday, a Priest.” Had she never seen a clergyman out of his soutane before? He did not look very holy at the moment, it was true; he was dirty and sweaty. Joseph set down the watering-pot and took up the shovel again to spread mulch.

  The young mother began glancing around as if she’d forgotten something. “I should have…” Did she think she’d behaved inappropriately? That he had?

  He must fix this. But he had so little experience with women. “You and your husband are welcome to celebrate with us at the cathedral.”

  “I don’t have a—” She dropped her eyes to the boy in her arms and went scarlet. “Thomas isn’t mine.”

  She IS free. His damned heart actually leapt in his chest, as if the news made any difference to him.

  “His mother and I were on the ship together. I watch him sometimes.”

  Remember what you are, wholly apart from your vocation. If this young woman knew what you carry in your veins, she would not flush—she would flee. Leave her to a better man. He must find something normal to say. “Did you emigrate recently?”

  “A month ago.” She fiddled with her little drawstring bag. “We’ve attended at the cathedral, but I—I haven’t seen you.”

  “I’ve been assisting His Lordship at the early Mass.” The one for the colored parishioners. “You came to Charleston with your father and your brother?”

  “Only with my youngest brother, Liam—William Conley. I am Teresa Conley.” She must be named for Teresa of Ávila! Joseph would have told her about Bernini’s sculpture, but she seemed so uncomfortable now.

  “My name is Joseph Lazare.” He smiled in an attempt to put her at ease again. Perhaps they were breeching etiquette—but circumventing formal introductions was one of the prerogatives of a clergyman. “I would kiss your hand properly, Miss Conley, but…” He grimaced as he pulled off a filthy gardening glove. Beneath, his hands were perspiring. “Will you come? On Saturday?”

  “Of course.” Still Miss Conley looked as though she wanted to flee, perched on the edge of the bench. In her arms, little Thomas stirred and whined. He did not want her to move any more than Joseph did.

  “I know you won’t recognize all the Latin, but Bishop England translated the Rite of Ordination a few years ago. We still have copies of the pamphlet, if you’d like to read it beforehand. I can get one for you—it would take half a minute.”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Joseph dashed to the Bishop’s residence, scraping off his boots as quickly as possible. He blessed himself using the holy water stoup at the door, and this put things in perspective. For fifteen minutes in that garden, Joseph had let himself lose sight of what was important. He was not a lover and he never would be. He was above all that. Miss Conley was a parishioner, nothing more. He grabbed the Ordination pamphlet from the library and raced back to the garden.

  She hovered near the gate, looking more ill at ease than ever. Miss Conley was taller than he’d expected—almost as tall as Cathy. Thomas stood beside her, sucking his thumb and gripping the skirts that concealed her long legs.

  Parishioners did not have legs.

  “Here it is.” Joseph held the pamphlet by a corner, so there would be no chance of their fingers brushing.

  Miss Conley took it just as gingerly. “You must be overjoyed. You’ve been preparing for this for…”

  “Ten years. Truly, all my life.”

  Miss Conley nodded shakily. She would not meet his eyes. She looked as if she were about to cry. A few minutes before, she had seemed so comfortable with him.

  Had she realized his attraction to her? “Miss Conley…have I offended you in some way?”

  She shook her head vigorously. “I cannot imagine better company.” She tucked the Ordination pamphlet in her bag. Her hands were trembling.

  “You could stay and read it here. If the snake returns, I promise to keep him away from you.”

  “Thank you, but…” She picked up little Thomas.

  “Whatever is troubling you, Miss Conley, you can tell me. In fact, I could use the practice as a confessor.”

  She turned away from him, so he saw the camellia again, so he hardly heard her words: “It will be difficult, I imagine, to know the true foulness of your companions.”

  “Sin is only the beginning. When I become a Priest, I can offer penitents Absolution. I can make their souls clean again and show them the way forward. Our God is a God of justice, yes; but He is also a God of love and forgiveness.”

  Over her shoulder, he saw Miss Conley’s profile for only a moment before she left him. “You will be a wonderful Priest, Mr. Lazare.”

  People had been telling him that half his life. For the first time, Joseph thought he believed it. Hadn’t he just passed his final test?

  His mind knew what was important, but his body did not. Before the next dawn, Joseph awoke to the proof—to the pollution that had not plagued him since his Ordination to Subdeacon. Now it was infinitely fouler. The holiest man in America slept across the hall, a man who believed Joseph worthy of the Priesthood. And always before, when Joseph remembered his dream, his partner in impurity had been a faceless abstraction. He curled up in shame, as if he could will the stuff back into his body. He’d thought he’d outgrown this. He’d been wrong.

  Before he crawled from his soiled bed, he whispered the prayer for purity to his patron. He’d never meant the words more than he did now: “Guardian of virgins, holy father Joseph, to whose custody Christ Jesus, Innocence itself, and Mary, Virgin of virgins, were committed, look mercifully upon my infirmity. I beseech thee, that I may be preserved from all defilement…”

  He took the ferry to Sullivan’s Island, ran till he was alone, and swam till he was exhausted. The chilly ocean numbed his stubborn flesh, and he felt almost clean again. When his side started cramping, he dragged himself up the beach and retched onto the sand.

  Why these sudden, paralyzing misgivings? People said grooms became uneasy on the eve of their weddings, no matter how much they loved their brides. That was all this was. It would pass.

  Chapter 20

  At the altar each day we behold them,

  And the hands of a king on his throne

  Are not equal to them in their greatness;

  Their dignity stands all alone;

  And when we are tempted and wander,

  To pathways of shame and of sin,

>   It’s the hand of a priest that absolves us—

  Not once, but again and again…

  — “The Beautiful Hands of a Priest,” from a Catholic prayer card

  On the day of his Ordination, Joseph was particularly careful about how he tied his cincture and how he held his candle. Bishop England had timed the ceremony to coincide with the Twelfth South Carolina Convention of clergy and laymen, so as many people as possible could witness Joseph’s transformation. As he progressed through the incense up the aisle of the cathedral, he caught the eyes of his family and of Miss Conley. She had come. She offered him a small smile, and he could see she was holding the Ordination pamphlet.

  His Lordship’s homily concerned the wonder of the Priesthood, but also its difficulty. At the end, he prayed for Joseph: “May the Immaculate Virgin Mary, the mother of Priests, and Saint Joseph, her most chaste spouse, intercede for you always.”

  For the first time of many, Joseph knelt before his Bishop, who stood in his full vestments and mitre. “As far as I can perceive, the conduct of this Deacon is pleasing to God… If any person has anything to allege against him, let him come forward and speak.” His Lordship paused to allow an objection.

  Joseph bowed his head lower, held his breath, and waited. Would someone expose him as colored? Would Miss Conley reveal the lust she had seen in his eyes?

  There was only silence in the cathedral. Joseph reminded himself that most of the audience did not know Latin. Even if they were trying to follow along in the translation, they might not have understood the placement of this pause.

  Satisfied, Bishop England resumed the rite. “Imitate that which you handle,” he admonished Joseph, “so that in celebrating the Mystery of the Lord’s death, you are careful to mortify your members concerning all vices and lusts. Let your doctrine be a spiritual medicine for the people of God. Let the fragrance of your life be the delight of the Church…”

  Joseph lowered himself to the floor of the cathedral until he was prostrate, his forehead resting on his folded arms. He lay in the very spot where, a decade before, he’d begged God to accept him, and Bishop England had assured him He would. They chanted the long litany of the saints, which included Saint Joseph but not Saint Teresa.

  At last Joseph rose to his knees again. First Bishop England and then each of the other Priests laid their hands upon Joseph’s bowed head. He was sure he could feel the power tingling through them into him: this unbroken apostolic succession, transmitted across eighteen centuries all the way from Saint Peter—from Christ Himself. “We beseech Thee, O God, infuse the blessing of the Holy Ghost and the virtue of Priestly grace upon this Thy servant…”

  His Lordship positioned the stole across Joseph’s breast. “May he preserve pure and undefiled his ministry…may he arise in inviolable charity a perfect man…”

  Bishop England removed his gloves. Trembling—for he knew what was coming—Joseph held out his hands. His Lordship dipped his thumb in holy oil and anointed Joseph’s palms. “O Lord, consecrate these hands by this unction and”—he made the Sign of the Cross—“our benediction.”

  Though his throat was tight, Joseph replied, “Amen.”

  His Lordship placed Joseph’s palms together, and Father Baker bound them with a spotless white cloth. Bishop England brought a Host and a chalice, and Joseph touched them. “Take this power to offer sacrifice to God, and to celebrate Masses, both for the living and the dead.”

  The cloth was removed from Joseph’s hands. The prayers of the Mass continued, in which Joseph now took part. He kissed the altar and the episcopal ring. He received from Bishop England the Body and Blood, the soul and divinity of Christ under the appearance of bread and wine.

  In time, Joseph joined his hands again, and His Lordship placed his around them. “Do you promise to me and my successors obedience and reverence?”

  “I promise,” Joseph answered, and Bishop England offered him the Kiss of Peace. Their cheeks were both damp with tears.

  I am a Priest, Joseph thought, stricken with awe, relief, and joy. I am a Priest, forever. No one could take this away from him. At long last, his life could begin.

  When the Mass concluded and the congregation spilled into his Biblical garden, Joseph’s family descended on him. Perched on her father’s hip, even little Sophie was wide-eyed and speechless. “Bless me first!” demanded his five-year-old nephew, yanking on Joseph’s chasuble.

  “Soon, David,” Joseph told him. “A new Priest blesses his parents first.”

  Joseph’s mother was so overcome, she forgot she never signed in public. ‘Now we have two doctors in the family: a physician of the body and a Physician of the Soul!’ Though she kept dabbing at her eyes, she was beaming. ‘Isn’t it wonderful, René?’

  He managed only a wan smile. ‘Just don’t expect me to call my son “Father.”’

  When Joseph held his hands over his mother’s head to begin the First Blessing, his father knelt beside her. But afterward, he rose without kissing Joseph’s anointed palms, when his father needed the indulgences far more than his mother.

  Nearby, Miss Conley was weeping. She stood next to a young man with her coloring—that must be her brother Liam. Eschewing etiquette, Hélène began chatting with them while Joseph blessed his grandmother, Cathy, Perry, and their children in turn. Then Miss Conley approached. Her eyes downcast beneath her mantilla, the young woman knelt before him, her white skirts billowing around her on the ground. She looks like an upside-down flower, Joseph thought as he gave her the blessing. Like a fallen camellia.

  When he offered his palms, Miss Conley took them in her own hands. Perhaps she could not afford gloves; her slender fingers were bare and warm in the chill November morning. The intimacy took him by surprise, and every muscle in Joseph’s body tensed. This was the first time they had touched. It was the first time any woman had ever touched him skin to skin—any woman unrelated to him, and that made all the difference.

  Miss Conley took possession of his hands in a grasp that was gentle but impossible to resist. The wound he’d incurred while pruning the gardenia had left the barest imperfection in his flesh, invisible to anyone who did not know where to look. Yet somehow, when Miss Conley raised Joseph’s palm to her lips, she kissed him exactly there.

  His reaction was weak but nonetheless electric, like one last convulsion in the tail of a dying fish. Clearly the chrism had yet to reach his loins.

  When Miss Conley kissed his other palm, Joseph tried to keep his arm limp; but at the last moment, his tendons contracted as if controlled by some invisible puppeteer. As she let go, his fingertips brushed her silken throat.

  “Will you pray for me, Father?” Miss Conley pleaded in a hoarse whisper. His hand was still so close to her mouth that Joseph could feel the trembling caress of her breath. Her eyes flickered, as if she were not sure where to look. When she closed them, more tears seeped between her long lashes.

  “O-Of course.” He wanted to fall to his knees and take Miss Conley’s face in his hands. He wanted to dry those tears with his stole and beg her to tell him what was wrong so that he could make it right.

  But how would that look? He would soil his vestments—it had rained last night.

  Hélène saved him from doing anything foolish. Without waiting for his blessing, she promptly followed Miss Conley’s example—except when his sister grabbed Joseph’s hands, she was sniggering.

  Joseph took control, patting Hélène’s cheeks in admonishment as though she were a child, since she was acting like one. “It has to be done devoutly, El. It doesn’t count if you’re giggling.” Still he couldn’t help smiling himself.

  Hélène huffed in mock effrontery and sprang up to embrace him instead. “I love you, Joseph! I don’t care if that earns me indulgences or not!” His little sister then lost no time in introducing everyone to the Conleys. She invited them to dinner.

  At the prospect of guests, Joseph’s mother fretted as if her deafness were contagious. His grandmother gave Hél�
�ne her wide-eyed jaw-clench of disapproval, which was already too late.

  ‘Look at them, Grandmama!’ Joseph’s sister argued in sign. ‘They’re so thin! And we always have plenty of food!’

  Mr. Conley watched Hélène’s hands with interest. “What’s she saying?” he asked Perry, who must have seemed less intimidating than the rest of them.

  Perry had learned a great many signs, but he chose his own translation: “She is saying that a new Priest must become acquainted with his parishioners.”

  The Conleys joined them for dinner the day after Joseph’s first Mass. Being served by Henry and May clearly made them uncomfortable, but brother and sister did their best to hide their reaction. For most of the meal, Miss Conley was gracious but withdrawn—so different from the vivacious woman he’d met in the garden.

  Of course their guests wanted to hear about Rome. Joseph imagined he would be recounting his years in the Eternal City for the rest of his life, but he did not mind. Then Perry and Mr. Conley commiserated about the cruelty of landlords. Perry’s family had been victims of the Highland Clearances. Mr. Conley’s ire was fresher and seemed even deeper. During this conversation, his sister became as white as death. The young Irishman quickly changed the subject, but Joseph longed to know their whole story.

  Hélène asked Mr. Conley a surprising number of questions. Joseph had not realized she was so interested in Irish politics. Their guest was eager to discuss Catholic Emancipation, how life in Ireland had changed since the Relief Act of ’29—and how it had not changed. The “Tithe War” still raged.

  “Catholic farmers who can barely feed their children are forced to pay for Protestant clergymen!” Mr. Conley exclaimed. Clashes between tithe agents and Catholics had taken hundreds of lives.

  “Please do not take my brother for a revolutionary,” Miss Conley interjected quietly. “My family holds with the Great Emancipator, O’Connell: we do not believe in violent protest.”